


Tavern Tales

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama, Gen, Humour, Mild Language, Tavern
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 22:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3827917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Adaar has a bone to pick with Varric - and, naturally, a tavern is the best place to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tavern Tales

**Author's Note:**

> This was written back in February as part of a gift for my partner. We’ve been working our way through DA: Inquisition together and he is a huge fan of Varric (let’s face it, who isn’t?) In this context, the Inquisitor is a female Qunari mage named Sinéas Adaar; Hawke is a male warrior; and the Hero of Ferelden is a female warrior named Emilia Cousland who supported Anora, made Loghain a Grey Warden, and caused Alistair to abandon Ferelden.
> 
> This vignette riffs on some of the decisions my partner and I made during our gameplay (such as I took us to the Winter Palace to do “Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts” immediately after completing “From the Ashes”, instead of doing “Here Lies the Abyss” first WHICH IS A BAD DECISION, DON’T DO IT, you’ll get slaughtered and have to lower the difficulty in order to win the final boss fight). Just because a quest line is available doesn’t mean you should do it then and there. We also made Sinéas a flirt – she literally flirted with everyone, if a romance option was available. After many attempts to set her up with Sera, she eventually ended up with Blackwall for reasons I am still confused about. 
> 
> Technically speaking, this piece comes after my other DA:I short, "Playacting is for Fools", but it’s not necessary to read that one to understand this one. 
> 
> Anyhoo, hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

When the door to the tavern flew open and a long, immense shadow fell menacingly across its threshold, the patrons merely glanced in its direction, shrugged and carried on as normal. (Normal being a few lively conversations, some drunken drooling, the occasional declaration of love and the occasional call for a duel, followed immediately by reckless duelers falling over when attempting to stand.) Even the bard didn’t miss a beat. Then again, this was Skyhold’s only tavern to date and dramatic door-flinging was on par for the kind of people who lived within the great fortress’ semi-rebuilt walls. Moreover, the owner of the long, immense shadow was not unfamiliar to the merry-making tavern-goers: Lady Sinéas Adaar, formerly of the Valos-Kas, currently anointed as Inquisitor and Herald of Andraste, Vashoth, Mage, and altogether accidental saviour or potential destroyer (depending on who you asked) of Thedas, was an imposing woman. Whether that was because of stature, her title, her magical capabilities, or the curling horns that crowned her fiery red hair, it was hard to say – the answer, as before, changed depending on who you asked. 

(Lady Adaar was a polarizing figure in certain circles. There were times when even she polarized herself.) 

Regardless of the mystique that, in her opinion, clung to her like an unwanted smell, the Inquisitor was a familiar sight in Skyhold’s lone tavern. Sinéas received a few short “Hey!”s and “Oi!”s as she swept across the threshold, but the speakers received only a curt nod in response. The gleam in her eye signalled her current state of mind – she was on a mission and nothing would waylay her until she completed it. She strode past Iron Bull (“Ey! Back for another challenge, Adaar?”), pushed past Sera (“Oi! You’ve got shit for manners, y’know!”), and leaped over three patrons, a round of drinks and the table they occupied, only to land with a decisive _thud_ in front of a small table squeezed into a back corner. There was a single person seated at it – a short, bulky figure with a hood thrown over his head so shadows danced mysteriously across his face in the flickering candlelight. 

The figure stared up at her. “You’ve finished, I take it.” He grasped his tankard and took a long drink. 

Sinéas loomed above him – very far above him. There is, after all, quite a height difference between a standing Qunari and a seated dwarf. 

“Explain,” she said. 

The dwarf chuckled. “Explain what?” 

“I want to know how you do it.” 

The dwarf sighed. “You know, boss, you’ve got a weird sense of drama. I can’t tell if you’re going to kill me, punch me or try to make out with me.” 

Sinéas raised an eyebrow. “Try to?” she said. “I’m sure I could kiss you if I _really_ wanted to—” 

The dwarf snorted. “Let’s not find out—” 

“And anyways,” she huffed as she took a seat, “you’re not much better, Varric. Sitting all alone, in a dark corner, in a tavern… I’d half expect people to think we were making some kind of sleazy deal.” 

Varric threw back his hood. “You sure know how to ruin the moment,” he said. “I was working on my sense of mystery until you came and ruined it.” 

“That’s what friends are for.” 

“I don’t agree with you, by the way,” he said, leaning back and putting his feet up on the table. 

“Don’t agree with what?” 

“With the part about the sleazy deal.” He eyed her for a moment. “You don’t look nearly _sleazy_ enough to be making some kind of _sleazy_.” 

“Andraste’s tits!” Sinéas threw up her hands. “Do you have something against the word ‘sleazy’?” 

“It’s a shitty word and I take offense to its existence – I’m a writer, I’m allowed to,” he added in response to Sinéas befuddled expression. “But we weren’t talking about words, chiefy—” 

“Chiefy…?” 

“I’m trying to find your nickname and don’t interrupt—” He wagged a finger at her. “The point I was trying to make before we got sidetracked was _you_ have far too much class to be caught making shady deals in tavern where all the idiots make shady deals.” 

Sinéas snorted. “Me? Class? You’ve got to be kidding.” 

“Nah. Josephine did a number on your makeover. Little miss mercenary has gone kaput.” 

“Excuse me.” 

Sinéas stood, walked to the bar and ordered a tankard of ale. She seized it, marched back to the table and downed the ale in one mouthful. As soon as she slammed the finished tankard down, she ordered a second from a passing barmaid. 

Varric whistled. “I hate to break it to you, your Inquisitorialness, but that proves nothing. There are classy drunks out there.” 

Sinéas rolled her eyes. “What about you?” 

“Me? Oh, I have no class. I’m sleaze all the way.” He plucked at the front of his shirt. “Take a gander at my chest hair for proof.” 

Sinéas didn’t. 

“I take it you finished it,” Varric said. 

“Yeah.” 

“And you’ve come to complain about the ending?” he asked. “Don’t feel bad, everyone does. Actually, I was expecting you to show up at some point or another—” 

“I want to know how you do it,” Sinéas interrupted. “Twist fact into fiction. Tell stories the way you do – with wit and humour and candor that make your characters seem more _real_ than real people.” 

Varric stared at her. For a long moment, the general commotion of the busy tavern – laughter, angry rants, low-voiced discussions, both on and off-key singing – descended upon them. Then— 

“You trying to seduce me, Inquisitor?” 

“No. Flattery was never my style.” 

“Interesting. Because I was just about to settle on a nickname for you—” Varric grinned mischievously. 

“I’m going to _love_ this one, aren’t I?” 

Varric’s eyes flashed briefly to her horns, then back to her face as he said, with a completely straight expression— “Horny.” 

And with that he dissolved into uncontrollably, belly-deep laughter. Sinéas watched the chortling dwarf through a stony expression. 

“You know I could set you on fire right now,” she said. 

Varric stopped laughing. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “But I was just appreciating that a woman like you has a healthy sexual appetite. Or so I’ve heard.” He raised an eyebrow. 

“I _don’t_ want to sleep with you, Varric.” 

“And I don’t want you to!” he exclaimed. “I’m content to view the buffet and not sample the dishes. Never know when I might encounter a surprise allergy. No, I’ll leave that distinct honour to the pleasures of others.” He grinned. “Blackwall comes to mind – Sera, too, maybe even Ruffles—” 

“Fire, Varric, _fire_ ,” Sinéas hissed. “It takes me less than a second to formulate that spell in my head—” 

“All right, all right!” he said. “My apologies, O Great One.” He nodded in her direction and took another drink. “Did you like the book?” 

“It was… refreshing.” 

“Ah.” 

“It was nice to see someone else worrying about the state of the world for once,” Sinéas clarified. 

“The marvels of escapism,” Varric said. “You should read more.” 

“I will.” 

“Good.” He paused. “My books?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Openly?” he pressed. 

“Maybe.” 

Varric clucked his tongue. “You’re a cruel woman, sweetheart. If it got out that the Inquisitor herself was a fan… By Andraste’s curled nose-hair, I’d be the richest man in Thedas!” 

Sinéas smiled. “Then I’ll consider it.” 

“That’s the spirit.” 

The barmaid arrived and handed Sinéas her tankard. “Is, uh, is that Aveline Vallen on the cover?” she asked as she took a drink. 

Varric laughed. “You noticed?” 

“I figured it was on purpose.” 

Varric smiled, took a drink and didn’t say anything. 

“Oooh…” She drummed her fingers on the edge of the table. “Lesson noted. Don’t piss off a writer.” 

“No, by all means, piss me off,” Varric said, stretching his arms behind his head. “Just be aware that anything you do in my presence is fair game for source material.” 

“And now here’s me wondering whether I’m going to show up in any of your future novels,” Sinéas said. 

Varric chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, chief. I’ll wait for you to die a decently tragic death in a Fade-fuelled firestorm and then I’ll immortalize your heroic legacy by resurrecting your soul on paper in the form of some back alley mongrel who gets killed by the protagonist in chapter three.” 

“Thanks, Varric. I knew you cared.” 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” He paused. “You’ll forgive me for not doing that _before_ your decently tragic death in a Fade-fuelled firestorm because I’m afraid you’d set my ass on fire if it ever went to print while you’re alive.” 

“Of course.” 

“Thanks. Your understanding is much appreciated.” 

“What are friends for?” 

Varric signalled for the barmaid and ordered more ale. “Jokes aside, if we’re being honest, I _would_ base a character on you, my lady.” 

“Really?” Sinéas said. “And here I thought my existence was pure creative fodder.” 

Varric spread his hands. “You’re a fascinating woman, Lady Adaar. A point of pure inspiration for writers. Hawke – he was decent. Helps that I know him, so I was there in person for all the nitty, gritty details. Cousland – well, can’t say I’ve tackled _her_ yet, but I know other folk in the trade who have. Even know a guy who met her. She…” He paused. “He said she wasn’t what you’d expect the slayer of an archdemon to be, but then how many archdemon slayers do we know?—anyway, _you._ You, my dear, are what we call ‘interesting.’” 

“Varric,” Sinéas said, “have you had too much to drink? I think you’re trying to flirt with me.” 

“No, your Inquisitorialness,” he replied. “Flattery was never my style.” 

The ale arrived. Varric drank. 

“I met a girl a few months ago,” Sinéas said. _  
_

_“Oh…?”_

“Not like _that_ , you idiot,” Sinéas said sharply. “She’s twelve years old.” 

“Ah,” Varric said. “Pardon me. What about this girl?” 

“She wanted to be me,” Sinéas said. “She has this game she plays with her brother and their friends… Something about re-enacting the attack on Haven – she plays me, he plays the dragon—” 

“Good for him,” Varric interrupted. “Everyone should aspire to be a dragon…” 

“—and I don’t think they understand who Corypheus is, so they ignore him—” 

“Ah, the ultimate fate of all evil magic beings,” Varric mused. “The more complex you make yourself, the higher your chance of being forgotten. Look at the Elven pantheon.” 

“—what I don’t understand,” Sinéas continued, “is why anyone would want to pretend to _be_ me.” 

Varric paused, flicking a finger along the edge of his tankard. “I’ve told you, you’re fascinating. Sure, some people are repulsed by the magic thing, some people are repulsed by the Qunari thing, some idiots are doubly repulsed by both _things_ , but the truth is, boss, you’re _interesting._ Can’t say that about most people.” Varric paused. “Look at Cullen.” 

Sinéas drank. 

“Look,” Varric continued, “all I’m saying is that to most people, you’re not much more than some heroic figure in a story. They want to be you, because your life’s a fantasy. An escape—” 

Sinéas threw her tankard down. “Andraste’s arse, what kind of blighted, ball-less idiot would you have to be to say my life is an _escape?”_

“You survive,” Varric said bluntly. “You always do.” 

Sinéas ground her teeth. Then she disappeared behind her tankard and did not return for several long moments. 

“You all right, your Inquisitorialness?” 

Sinéas set her empty tankard down and signalled for more. “If I _were_ to be in a story of yours, what would you do?” 

“That’s an awful big question there, boss.” 

“You’re good at coming up with awful big answers.” 

“Fair enough.” Varric stared up at the ceiling and exhaled a puff of air. “I dunno. I guess it would depend on whether it was a straight re-telling or if I… magicked you up a bit.” 

Sinéas raised an eyebrow. 

“Magicking you up is a lot more interesting in the long run,” Varric continued, still looking at the ceiling. “As much as I like telling other people’s stories, I’m no historian. It’s easier to get away with compulsive lying when people aren’t looking for it. Not to mention historians are full of bullshit.” He paused, still considering Sinéas’ question. “I’m hitting a stumbling block here, chief, do you mind if I take a pass?” _  
_

_“Yes.”_

“All right, all right, you’re the boss.” 

He fell into silence, eyes shifting back and forth as he stared at the ceiling in thought. Sinéas waited patiently. By the time she had downed two more tankards of ale, her patience was beginning to grown thin and her perception was starting to get hazy. Albeit very _slightly._ (Or so she convinced herself.) 

“VARRIC!” Sinéas shouted. 

Her voice boomed across the tavern. Heads turned in her direction and suddenly several dozen pairs of eyes were scrutinizing her very closely. Sinéas shrugged. Eyes looked away. Sinéas thought she heard Sera giggling somewhere. _  
_

_Andraste’s bloody cheekbones, that girl’s laughter’s infectious,_ she thought and then snapped herself out of it. Varric was staring at her. 

“What?” she said. 

“You said my name.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You yelled my name.” 

“Yeah.” 

Varric shrugged. “Okay. Well, all I can say is that I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t. And even if I had more time to think about it, I doubt I _would_ know. Sometimes there are so many twists and turns and knots and bumps and… well, generally speaking, sometimes it’s best to let a story speak for itself. So I can’t say how I would write this story of you (but not _you,_ you), because I won’t know where to go with it or what to do with it until I _start_ it. Sometimes all I can see is a starting place.” He paused. “Actually, that’s pretty much how all my books have worked.” 

Sinéas frowned. “But shouldn’t you at least have a plan, so you know where you’re going?” 

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, there’s no point in having a plan if you’re just gonna run from it in the first place. I guess that makes us more similar than we thought.” With that, he threw his head back and disappeared behind his tankard. 

“More _similar_ than you thought?” Sinéas eyes narrowed. 

Varric snorted. Coughing on inhaled ale, he put his tankard down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If we remove a penchant for witticism and sarcasm from this conversation, the way I see it, I’m just like you – the exception being that I deal in fictions, whereas _you_ deal in what _ought_ to be fiction.” He nodded towards her clenched left hand where it rested on the table’s smooth surface. 

Sinéas quickly drew her hand back, hiding it in her lap. “What are you saying, Varric?” 

“I don’t plan my stories. I go where they take me, which can turn them into quite the bitch when they want to be…” He shrugged. “Same goes for you.” 

“I _plan—_ ”Sinéas began forcefully. “I, well, _we_ have a plan—” 

“Sinéas,” Varric interrupted, “I don’t have to sit on the war council to know how it works. Despite the cumulative talents of your mighty leaders, little gets accomplished because little _can_ when you can’t account for all the variables. When something does happen, it’s based on guesswork.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure that’s what almost got you killed in the Winter Palace.” 

Sinéas flushed and took a long drink to hide her embarrassment. Unfortunately, it was difficult to hide her face behind such a small tankard. “It was a miscalculation.” 

“And you still have a mess to clean up around Orlais.” 

She slammed her tankard down. “Are you advising me, haranguing me, or stating the obvious, Varric?” 

He shrugged. “That’s up to you. A writer has no control over how an audience interprets his words.” 

Sinéas’ eyes narrowed. “Most people would think it unwise to get on the bad side of a Qunari mage.” 

“Ahhh,” he replied, eyes gleaming as he wagged a finger at her. “But you’re _not_ a Qunari mage. You’re Vashoth.” 

“Most people don’t know the difference.” 

“I’m not ‘most people.’” 

“No,” Sinéas said. “You’re a writer.” 

Varric roared with laughter. “Funny, Inquisitor, funny. Can’t say I’ve heard that one before. Now just give me a moment to figure out if that’s a hidden compliment or a subtle stab at my character.” 

“…it’s not particularly witty,” Sinéas said as she eyed the still-chortling dwarf. 

“Oh, it’s witty.” 

“Have you had too much to drink?” 

“Not at all,” Varric replied, raising his tankard. “It was witty enough for me. But then, as Cassandra will tell you, I have a despicable sense of humour.” He drained his ale and handed the empty glass to a passing barmaid, who refilled it. 

“So, Varric…” Sinéas leaned forwards, resting her elbows on the table and strumming her long fingers together. “If you _never_ plan anything… All those insane pots and side characters and quests in _Swords and Shields_ and _Hard in Hightown_ – you just make them up as you go along?” 

Varric sighed and took a drink. “We’re back to where we started, eh?” 

“Why all the fuss?” 

“I think I’ve talked enough about my writing for one evening,” he said. “It’s a wonder you’ve gotten this much out of me.” 

“Just answer the stupid question, Varric.” 

“You’re damn persistent when you want to be, your Inquisitorialness.” 

“It’s how I get shit done.” 

Varric looked at her. “Fine,” he sighed. “To answer your question, _Inquisitor_ : I don’t have an answer. I think of something, I write it, it’s done. That satisfy you?”

 “No.” 

“Pfft.” He spat to the side. “You’re worse than Cassandra.” 

“Yes.” 

Varric eyed her and grinned. “All right, _Sin_ —” _  
_

_“Sin?!”_

“Sod it all, don’t get overexcited, your Inquisitorialness, I’m still working on my nickname for you.” 

“I can’t decide if that one’s worse than ‘Horny’ or not.” 

“Well, then, Horny Sin—” _  
_

_“Varric—”_

“Get used to being unsatisfied, because that’s all I’ve got.” Varric raised an eyebrow and smiled. “See? Isn’t it a good thing that we aren’t lovers? I knew my instincts were right.” 

Sinéas crossed her arms. “Hey, I was the one who first said I wasn’t going to be sleeping with you.” 

“Yeah, but I _thought_ it before you did.” He paused. “I’m sure it would be _fun_ —” 

Sinéas snorted. 

“—just think of all the interesting positions we’d have to find to compensate for the height difference—” 

Sinéas’ brows knitted together in concentration. “—I can think of a few ones that are mathematically impossible, so we’d have to be careful about those—” 

Varric barked a laugh. 

“Oh, _shut up.”_ She took a drink. 

“Don’t be embarrassed, my lady,” Varric said. “You read _Sword and Shields._ And _liked it._ I know you’ve got a dirty mind." 

“Just remember that I can incinerate your chubby, hairy little arse in one second flat,” Sinéas said. 

“Nah, I don’t think I have to worry,” Varric said as he leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Who else is going to tell your story – fictional or not – after you die your decently tragic death in a Fade-fuelled firestorm?” 

Sinéas grinned. She raised her tankard and clanged it against Varric’s—

 And his chair promptly tilted backwards and he tumbled out onto the floor. 

Sinéas burst into laughter and banged her head against the table. She had a feeling they had just abruptly passed the threshold of “slightly tipsy, good conversations” into the realm of “how shit-faced can we get”. She couldn’t even remember how many tankards of ale she had consumed. 

Sinéas was still shaking with laughter when Varric’s face swam into view. 

“Hey, Horny,” he said. 

She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “What?” 

Varric heaved himself into his uprighted chair. “Have you ever noticed how challenging stupid simple things are when you’ve had a touch too much of… well… this?” He raised his tankard.       

“No, not really.” 

Varric laughed. “Good on, ya. Me, when I get to a certain point, I find myself giving out congratulations to myself for completing the simplest of tasks. Congratulations, you’ve managed to walk across the room without bumping into anyone! Congratulations, you’ve managed to put the fork directly between your teeth without impaling your tongue! Congratulations, you’ve managed to take a piss without—” 

“Thanks,” Sinéas interrupted, “I get the picture.” 

Varric paused, staring very intently at her. “Hey,” he said. 

“What?” 

“How drunk can a Qunari get?” 

_the end_


End file.
